


this kind of waiting

by pdameron



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, M/M, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, jewish silver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 22:30:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15783414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdameron/pseuds/pdameron
Summary: Not only does Flint know, but he’salwaysknown, and he hasn’t said anything to Silver. Flint knows that they’re soulmates, and he’s done nothing.The way Silver sees it, there are only two real possibilities here: Flint is either indifferent to the concept in general, or he simply doesn’t want a soulmate if the soulmate in question is Silver. The first is disappointing. But the second?The second is devastating.





	this kind of waiting

**Author's Note:**

> huge thanks to [medusine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/medusine/pseuds/medusine) for beta-ing, and to [maggie](https://in-darkness-be-dragons.tumblr.com/post/177356095770/art-for-slverjohn-s-fic-this-kind-of-waiting-for) for her beautiful artwork!

 

Silver doesn’t hesitate to dive in after Flint. He doesn’t even stop to think. Flint hits the water, and not thirty seconds later Silver follows suit. 

He tries not to attribute any sort of deeper meaning to his actions, focusing instead on steadying his breathing, on keeping Flint’s head above water as he drags them slowly but surely to the shore.

He wishes, briefly, that he wasn’t the only  _ fucking _ person who gives a shit whether the man lives or dies at the moment, if only because dragging the Captain across the beach, wet clothes and all, is  _ difficult _ . He gives up about halfway, when they’re far enough onto the sand that they won’t get splashed by the oncoming tide. It’ll have to do.

Silver wastes no time, taking off the captain’s coat and shirt as gently and quickly as possible to inspect his injuries. It’s a clean shot, through and through, and while Silver knows that medically speaking this is probably a good thing, this also means he has to dress two bullet wounds instead of one. 

Nothing can ever be easy with Flint, that’s for damn sure.

In the time it’s taken Silver to drag Flint ashore, three bodies have washed up along the beach, about four yards down. Silver decides, fuck it,  _ they’re _ not going to be using those shirts, and so he risks abandoning his charge for the few moments it will take to steal his makeshift bandages.

It’s only after he’s finished wrapping Flint’s wound with a wrung out, sea-stained rag, after the adrenaline has finally begun to fade slightly, that he notices the mark on the captain’s arm.

He feels all the breath leave him at once. 

It’s - it’s his moon.

His soulmark.

He reaches out with a trembling hand, traces the shape of it with a barely-there touch. He’s almost afraid it’ll disappear the moment he makes contact, just a figment of his overtired, overheated imagination. Maybe it’s a passing shadow, a peculiarly dark cluster of freckles, a bloody  _ tattoo _ rather than a soul mark - but no: as soon as he makes contact with the little crescent moon, he feels a sudden spike of warmth through his chest. It makes him snatch his hand back in shock, rubbing against his own soulmark where it rests below his collarbone. 

He’s never really imagined what meeting his soulmate would be like. He’d decided long ago that he wouldn’t ever be lucky enough to find them. That simply wasn’t the kind of life he was meant for, he’d been sure. Why would he have wasted time fantasizing about a happily ever after, a true love, when he could have been dreaming about having food, or even one day a home?

Silver, for the first time in perhaps his entire life, has no idea what to do. No plan, no pithy quip, not the faintest idea of where to go from here. He’s not even sure how to  _ feel _ , let alone what to think. In all his schemes and calculations, not once had he ever factored in a soulmate. And not once, even in the wildest machinations of his immense imagination, had he ever thought that soulmate might be  _ James fucking Flint. _

So he does nothing. He sits there on the beach, staring at his soulmate, taking him in under this new light. He wants to reach out and touch, wants to trace along the mark again, wants to feel the rise and fall of his chest for himself, wants to reassure himself that yes, he really  _ does _ have a soulmate, he’s  _ real _ , Silver’s  _ found _ him -

But the last thing Flint would want would be anyone, let alone Silver, molesting him while he’s unconscious.

So instead he stares.

He stares so long and so intensely that he doesn’t notice Howell approach; he startles badly as the doctor kneels in the sand next to him. They don’t exchange words as Howell starts to redress the wounds with the medical supplies he’s recovered from the ship. They don’t even lock eyes, really, until Flint makes a pained noise at the treatment and Silver instinctually grabs his hand. He flushes as Howell takes in the sight of him holding the bloody Captain’s hand like he’s some fainting maiden, but he doesn’t let go until the work is done.

Howell only speaks as he’s getting ready to return to the rest of the crew (who’ve taken up residence about twenty yards away, closer to where the Walrus wrecked). He turns to Silver with a sympathetic look.

“Hell of a thing, being tied to a man like that. I don’t envy you in the slightest.”

And he walks away, leaving Silver to stare at his retreating back in shocked silence.

He  _ knows? _ But…? 

Oh.

Of course Howell’s seen Flint’s mark: he’s the ship’s doctor, for fuck’s sake. He’s probably seen the mark of every man on the crew. No doubt he hasn’t said anything before this out of tact. 

And it’s then that Silver has a second, much less pleasant epiphany.

Howell knows, yes, but more importantly,  _ Flint _ knows.

He has to know. One of Silver’s greatest insecurities growing up had been just how visible his mark was. His heart is just -  _ there _ , for all to see. He’s heard stories, of course, of people whose soulmarks were on their palms, or even their faces, but he’s never met anyone with a more conspicuous mark than him. And, given how fucking  _ hot _ it is in the Caribbean, he’s taken to just leaving his shirts unbuttoned, letting his collar fall as it will, soulmark be damned.

This means that Flint has to have seen Silver’s mark. That first night, up against the rocks by the wrecks, they’d been mere centimeters apart; there’s no way Flint would have or  _ could _ have missed it.

Which means that, not only does Flint know, but he’s  _ always _ known, and he hasn’t said anything to Silver. Flint knows that they’re soulmates, and he’s done nothing. 

The way Silver sees it, there are only two real possibilities here: Flint is either indifferent to the concept in general, or he simply doesn’t want a soulmate if the soulmate in question is Silver. The first is disappointing. But the second?

The second is devastating.

 

 

*****

 

 

The problem, Silver thinks as they stare out over the Urca wreck, is that he  _ gets _ it. He wouldn’t want himself as a soulmate either, if he were Flint. The captain sees him as a self-serving, smart-mouthed thief, and the reality of it - a frightened, desperate, orphan street rat - isn’t any more appealing.

Well, he supposes, there’s no time like the present to prove him wrong.

He volunteers to join Flint on his errand, after his long winded speech about the “fucking Warship”, to demonstrate that he’s clever enough to see the escape plan hiding behind his intricately woven words. They’re evenly matched, the pair of them: cunning and willing to do what it takes to survive, using their cleverness to talk their way out of any obstacle.

Before, all Silver could see was the chasm of differences between he and Flint; now that he knows the truth, he can’t help but notice the ways they are the same, the ways they complement each other. 

Of course, his brilliant move is immediately undercut by Flint calling him a shit, which - what?

“Um, beg pardon?”

Flint sits on a rock and takes off his boots, almost like he’s preparing for a swim. He’s really committing to this act, pretending to get ready to leave while Dufresne is still close enough to see. “I needed a fighter, someone I could count on to make a difference on that ship.   
What the  _ fuck _ were you doing volunteering?”

And then, Silver thinks, perhaps they’re not so similar after all, because he would never have even  _ thought _ of such a ridiculous, ambitious, suicidal - 

“I’m not doing it,” he declares, putting his foot down firmly on the matter.

Of course, moments later, he’s following Flint into the sea, like a moth after a flame. 

It is not Flint’s warnings about the local tribes, about the dangers he might face walking to St. Augustine, that sway him; rather, it is the understanding that this is just another opportunity to prove himself to his soulmate. It’s true, he’s no fighter, not like Flint or Vane or Joshua, but he’s no stranger to violence either. He thinks he could surprise Flint, given the chance. 

But, as ever, Flint refuses to be impressed. Silver grabs the whistle, knowing that it will be useful to them in the future, and Flint in response holds a  _ fucking _ knife to his neck, instead of thanking him for his initiative. 

“Might you consider for a fucking moment that your distrust of me is completely unwarranted? I warned you about Billy. Was I right? I found you over Mr. Gates's body, and did I do anything but defend you? When you were sinking to the bottom of the sea, who do you imagine it was who dragged you onto that beach?” And all of this, he doesn’t say, was even before he knew they were soulmates. “Brace yourself, but I'm the only person within a hundred miles of here who doesn't want to see you dead.”

He doesn’t miss the way Flint’s eyes flit to the moon on his chest. For a moment, he thinks Flint might actually say something about it - he must realize that Silver knows now, after seeing him without his shirt - but the moment is ruined as a Spaniard comes down the stairs into the hold. 

It takes all of thirty seconds for Flint to kill him, and another ten for the both of them to realize that Silver should take the dead man’s garb. He strips down to his breeches, grateful to be out of his wet clothes, and bends over to remove the Spaniard’s trousers. He glances back at Flint, to ensure that he’s keeping a lookout, only to see the captain look away from him hurriedly, the tips of his ears red from something other than the sun’s exposure. 

Flint had been staring at his ass, Silver suddenly realizes, and it sends a hot thrill running through him, horribly timed but no less satisfying for it. He smiles to himself as he finishes the job (Flint, after being caught, does not look back at him once). Physically, at least, it would seem his soulmate has no objections to him.

The smile falls quickly, however, as he realizes that this might be the only thing about Silver that Flint  _ does _ appreciate. 

He thinks, when his whistle plan actually works, that Flint might be starting to if not appreciate then at least respect his mind. Of course, immediately afterwards Flint gets himself and then Silver captured, so his small victory is short lived. 

The Spanish boatswain offers them a deal, and Silver realizes that giving up the information is the quickest way to make his way to a weapon, namely the lamp on the table. 

“My name is John Silver. His name is James Flint. We came here to steal the gold from the treasure galleon, but he was deposed from his captaincy by a man named Dufresne, who is now waiting with the rest of our crew in longboats. You'll likely find them behind the promontory to the south. I believe there are 32 of them.”

“You  _ fucking _ \- ” Flint starts to try and get to him, only to be struck by one of the guards.

“Sorry,” he says, playing the part, and when he looks Flint in the eyes he realizes that the captain is  _ actually  _ angry, that he truly believes Silver would just abandon him. 

Flint is his _fucking_ _soulmate_. Of course he’s not going to just take the money and run ( _before_ he’d seen that moon on Flint’s arm… well, that’s a different story). The fact that Flint believes this of him - knowing that Silver is aware of their situation - only shows how far he still has to go. 

As he smashes the lamp over the boatswain’s head, the look of honest surprise on Flint’s face as the man hits the ground is absolutely magnificent. 

Of course, then he realizes what a colossal mistake he’s made, looking between the two guards. Is it really worth dying just to prove to Flint he’s not a complete snake? 

Still, it’s not like he has much of a choice at this point, so he shoots the one with the scars and hopes for the best. The best, meaning he hopes that Flint frees himself before the Spaniard stabs him. 

He does, thank fuck, and as they prepare to face down what is almost certainly their doom, Silver finds himself oddly glad that he’ll die next to Flint. If he’s going to die, at least he’ll die knowing that he  _ found _ him, and that they might have had a chance, someday.

Of course, that’s when Joshua shows his beautiful,  _ beautiful _ face, and Silver can still chase that someday.

 

 

*****

 

 

The only good thing about being a pariah among the crew is that Flint is in the same boat as him. They are essentially seen as one unit, and act as such. Wherever Flint is, Silver is rarely far behind. This is excellent in relation to Silver’s plan to prove himself a worthy soulmate, and irritating in that Flint will not fucking  _ cooperate _ with said plan.

He tells Flint about the home for boys, about Solomon Little, and while he’s blurred some of the details, it’s still a huge step for him to share something so integral to his identity, to share  _ any _ significant part of his past. He reminds himself, on a near daily basis, that it was  _ Solomon Little _ who made those addresses; it was Solomon Little who spent his days lonely and friendless; it was Solomon Little who cried himself to sleep under his thin blankets, missing his mother; it was Solomon Little who the pastors would cane until he bled for his smart tongue and his refusal to pray to that Jesus man. He  _ is not _ Solomon Little, and perhaps some small part of him never was. What happened to that boy is not what happened to him.

He shares this part of himself with Flint, tries to downplay just how much of his soul he has bared, and yet -

“If you’re trying to impress me, it isn’t working,” Flint says later, and Silver wants to fucking tear his hair out, because of  _ course _ he’s trying to impress Flint, surely the man must realize that. He doesn’t have to throw it in Silver’s face. 

It’s like Flint enjoys watching Silver try and fail to meet his expectations. 

Silver, too, enjoys mocking people he thinks fools; eventually, when he wins Flint over, they’ll scoff at those fools together. But for now, he’ll settle for being annoyed as he heads to make his next address.

He gets a punch to the face for exposing Dooley, and one to the gut for the goat-fucking comment, but it’s worth the bloody lip to see the way Flint smirks at him, quietly amused and, yes,  _ impressed _ to see what Silver had described of St. John’s play out among these grown men.

Not an hour later, Dufresne decides to go hunting. Silver is infinitely glad he’s not technically a part of the crew currently: he’d rather throw himself overboard than follow any order that weasel tried to give him.

He and Flint watch together as Dufresne boards the merchant ship, and Flint begins to narrate, to offer commentary and give Silver an insight to his strategic, brilliant mind. 

“You hope that he can reassure himself that he made the right decision. You hope that he doesn't realize that the thing he thought he was surrendering to, the thing that drove fear into his heart the moment he saw the black - that thing is nowhere to be found.”

Silver doesn’t know if Flint means that they as pirates are not as fearsome as most sailors tend to think, or if he means that the surrendered captain will not be so afraid when he realizes that it is not the infamous Captain Flint who has taken his ship after all. 

“Men in these waters are hard men. They don't fear ships. They don't fear guns. They don't fear swords.”

“Then what do they fear?” Silver asks, enthralled. He doesn’t want this tense, strangely intimate moment to end. 

But the merchant starts to fight back, and the Walrus crew has begun to retreat, and already Flint is making his move. Silver watches in quiet awe as Flint retakes his ship as easily as breathing, as the crew follows his orders almost instinctively.

When the ship is sunk and they’re back on course, Flint makes his way back below deck, no doubt to brood or plot his next maneuver. Silver wants nothing more than to follow him down, to push him up against the nearest wall and fall to his knees and -

He feels his cheeks heat up at the thought, and quickly shakes the notion. He’s playing the long game here: he can’t just impulsively take what he wants; can’t risk scaring Flint off too soon, not when he’s only just begun to convince the man that he’s more than some thief. He has no doubt that Flint has some interest in him physically, but Silver, for perhaps the first time in his life, wants more than just a passing convenience. He doesn’t want a casual fuck. He wants a soulmate.

 

 

*****

 

 

“How can you stand so close to him knowing what he's capable of? And that sooner or later you'll be next?” Hornigold asks, and Silver’s hand on instinct starts to move to his moon, to rub against that mark which binds him to Flint inexorably. 

The dead Spaniard’s shirt covers it more than his old white one, and for that he’s a little grateful. He’d felt horribly vulnerable, knowing Flint could see his mark while he could not so easily reassure himself of Flint’s own tie to him. He’s taken to wearing this ridiculous, ornate cross round his neck, in part to better play the part of a plundering pirate, and in part because he finds it funny - a Jew wearing a cross - but mostly because it would draw attention away from his mark, should his collar move or stretch. Now that he knows his moon belongs to Flint, he’s more wary of people discovering this bond, of using it against them. 

Instead of touching his soulmark, he crosses his arms, leaning casually against a post. “Five million pieces of eight,” he lies, or at least half-lies. “Why? How do you do it?”

Flint’s growing preoccupation with Vane’s presence in the fort is irritating, to put it mildly, but at least Silver can reason as he listens to Flint stir the men into a frenzy that night it’s all for the sake of the gold. It seems a bit unnecessary, but then again Silver knows very little of Vane, beyond that time he’d nearly stabbed him on Max’s behalf. Maybe Flint’s threats and posturing really are what’s in their best interests, and Silver should just trust him. 

Isn’t that what soulmates do? Put their faith in one another?

The next day, Flint seems to put his faith in Silver, inviting him into the cabin to listen to the meeting between himself and Hornigold. He also seems to realize, finally, what Silver’s capable of, though he does not ask it so much as demand it of him.

“Can I assume when you say you’ll go to the beach to make this appeal, you mean me?”

Flint just gives him a look, and though it’s slightly annoying that the captain just  _ assumes _ he’ll do it, Silver can’t help but be pleased that he’s been entrusted with such an important task. 

But Flint stops him before he can leave, asks for  _ his _ opinion, and Silver in turn finally finds a true chink in his armor.

“And you? What do you think? Do you see me as the villain here?” Flint asks, his eyes almost teasing, the very slightest hint of a smile on his face. 

Silver laughs at that, because although the answer is no, this isn’t a simple tale of hero versus villain. “I see you as the agent most likely of securing my share of the gold on that beach. As long as that remains true I am not bothered in the least by whatever labels anyone else decides to affix to you.”

But seeing the way Flint’s eyes dim, the way he looks away, gives Silver pause. Flint looks - almost vulnerable, after Silver’s response, like he’d hoped for a less avoidant answer, for Silver to tell him he’s in the right, that Vane is the villain in this particular story.

“It bothers you, doesn’t it? What they think? With the things that you’ve done...my god, it must be awful being you.”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound so cavalier, so rude, but he’s just so caught off guard: he’s learned to survive by carefully cultivating how people feel about him, while simultaneously not giving a shit about said feelings. He’s been so many men to so many people, and the thought of worrying over what they might think of him sounds exhausting. Just worrying about what  _ Flint _ thinks of him is draining. He can’t imagine how Flint does it. 

Silver’s suspicion has always been that Flint was once a good man, one others respected and spoke highly of. Not a lord, of course - probably some sort of naval officer, given the way he carries himself - but someone upstanding, someone with a carefully maintained air of propriety. He suspects Flint was the kind of man who’d been going places, the kind people would say had a bright future, before he’d turned to piracy. 

He imagines it might be difficult to go from one extreme to the other, but then again Silver’s never had a bright future once in his life. He’s always been looked down on, in a way that made trying to climb any sort of social ladder useless: first for being a Jew, back in Spain (a time he tries very hard not to think of); then for being not only an orphan, but a  _ Spanish _ orphan in England; and then for being a street urchin. 

Flint dismisses him, and Silver says nothing more, knowing he’s cracked through one of the man’s walls, and the captain will want time alone to overthink it, as he does everything.

In that regard, he and Flint are nothing if not alike. Silver himself will be ruminating on this particular exchange at least for the next several days, analyzing every twitch of Flint’s face, every furrow of his brow.

Although, to be fair, Silver thinks about Flint’s face an awful lot as it is. 

It’s a good one, as far as faces go.

 

 

*****

 

 

Flint’s new plan is, at least in Silver’s view, complete and utter insanity. Even  _ he’s _ heard of Peter Ashe, and he’s only been a pirate for about a month.

Flint is too busy ‘seeming unconcerned’ to notice Silver’s waning faith, and so he sees fit to remind the captain that he has yet to secure his own vote. The moon on his chest and the one on Flint’s arm are no guarantee that the pair of them will see eye to eye on this matter, or the next.

“The gold is still a priority,” Flint lies. “There’s been no change in that. You have my word.”

The irritation Silver’s feeling is nothing new, when it comes to Flint, and so he pastes on a smile, lets loose a false chuckle, and gets back to work. 

Flint may be lying to Silver, but that doesn’t mean Silver can’t tell a few lies of his own.

By the time he walks into the brothel, Silver’s fairly brimming over with frustration. 

Fucking Flint. 

Fucking soulmates. 

Fucking Miranda Barlow and her fucking schemes.

His pleasure at seeing Max as the Madam is short lived, immediately replaced again by the frustration when he sees Logan and Charlotte face down in pools of their own blood.

The evasiveness with which Max answers his questions leads him to believe that it was undoubtedly Anne Bonny who did this: she did, after all, save Max from that beach, and therefore is the only person Max would be so adamant to protect. 

Together they come up with a somewhat believable story, some bullshit about a forbidden love and an escape to Port Royal, and then Silver flops down onto the bed and buries his face in his hands, dead bodies be damned.

“Jesus Christ, this  _ fucking _ day. This fucking week. First Vane in the fort, then Billy washes up on the beach, then this business with Hornigold, and now my armorer is dead and I’m helping you cover for  _ Anne Bonny _ , of all people.”

He can’t see the look on Max’s face, but knowing her it’s probably something put upon to seem vaguely intrigued, or falsely sympathetic. He knows her games, because he plays them himself.

“None of your concerns seem to include Captain Flint,” she says leadingly, and Silver walks right into it.

He laughs, slightly hysterically, sitting up to stare at her incredulously. “Are you kidding me? Flint is the source of all my problems. He’s stubborn, he’s reckless, he’s proud, he’s a  _ fucking _ liar, and don’t even get me started on this whole sou - ”

Silver cuts himself off, but he’s too late: Max’s eyes widen, and she races over, sitting next to him.

“Soulmate? Captain Flint is your soulmate?” She sounds and looks as if she’s been completely blindsided, which is fair enough, because Silver himself is still a little shocked about it. “I confess, I noticed that you have taken more care to hide your mark, but I didn’t think much of it - truly, it is him? The one who shares your moon?”

Silver should deny it. He should scoff at the very idea of Flint being his soulmate, force a laugh and tell her she’s being ridiculous. 

But - Max was the first person he’d ever really trusted on this island, disastrous though their plan turned out to be. And he wants, so very badly, to  _ talk _ to someone about this, even if she could use this information for her own gain later on. 

He sighs, hangs his head, and nods.

Max swears a blue streak in French, and he can’t help but agree with the sentiment. Once she’s had a moment to take in the news, she speaks, cautiously.

“But, surely this is a good thing, yes? Who better to rein Flint in, protect him from himself, _ steer him in the right direction _ , than his soulmate?”

Silver fiddles with the rings on his fingers, and remains silent. Max is smart enough to interpret his lack of response for what it is.

“Unless…” There it is. “Has he rejected you?”

He snorts, shaking his head. “A rejection would imply that he’s actually acknowledged it in the first place.”

“But he knows you share a mark? You used to bare it so brazenly. He could not have missed it.”

“I came to a similar conclusion.”

“Fuck, Silver. That is… ” Max trails off, at a loss for words.

“Yeah,” he agrees. It’s fucking awful,that’s what it is. 

They’re silent for a time, until Silver can’t bear it any longer and changes the subject slightly. “So. You and Bonny?”

Max hikes up her skirt, until Silver can see the mark on her thigh: a small flame, bold and bright. 

“She has the other?” Max nods, and Silver frowns, confused. “I’m glad for you, truly, but - I’d have thought that it was Rackham who was her other half.”

“He shares a mark with Captain Vane, though I do not believe Vane is aware of it,” she says casually, as if this isn’t Earth-shattering news. “Still, you are right, in a way: Anne and Jack share a bond that is most unbreakable. It has been...trying, navigating this new terrain.”

Silver lets out another sigh, and lies back down. This time, Max joins him. The room has begun to stink, thanks to Charlotte and Logan.

“What a mess we’ve gotten ourselves into, eh, Max?”

  
  


 

*****

 

 

When Vincent and Nicholas return from their watch and tell him of the sickness that has befallen the Spanish soldiers, Silver’s first thought is that all of Flint’s problems are solved. 

It would be so easy to buy the scouts’ silence, to keep it amongst the four of them and tell the rest of the men the gold is lost, tell them there’s no point in following Hornigold if there’s no gold to protect from Vane anyway. 

And then he has to check himself, because when the fuck did he start thinking of Flint before himself?

Flint has made it clear to him with this new plan that the gold which had brought them together, had forged their tepid trust, is no longer of import to him. Now, the only things tying them together are the moons on their skin, and as far as he knows Flint doesn’t give a shit about those or even Silver himself.

Silver’s so annoyed at his own sentimentality, so irritated with his lack of self-preservation, that he decides to lie to Flint about the gold, at least at first. Flint’s done nothing but piss him off these past few days, especially for the way he just assumes Silver will fall in line; it would serve him right, to be dealt a blow like this. 

Of course, lying to Flint as well as the rest of the crew about the gold still solves the Captain Hornigold problem, but Silver’s trying to focus on his pettiness in this particular situation.

Within twenty minutes, any guilt or regret Silver’s been feeling about deceiving Flint dries up like water in a barren desert. 

“Those men listen to you. They give a shit about what you have to say. What you think, what you want them to think,” Flint says, almost pleading. Silver thinks this is a bit of an exaggeration on Flint’s part, but it still takes some effort for Silver to push down the sudden rush of warmth he feels at the thought. Then Flint twists the knife in. “Where else in the world is that true? Where else would you wake up in the morning and matter?”

Silver winces. It’s true, and he knows it. He hardly even matters  _ here _ .

“You walk out on this, and where the fuck are you going?” Flint finishes, and Silver doesn’t miss the way his eyes dart down to the moon on his chest, the edge of it just barely visible next to his gaudy cross. He stares at it just a hair too long.

Silver can feel something within him wither and fade as he takes in Flint’s expression. He knows that look; he’s seen it dozens of times, as the Captain has sized up his adversaries, assessed where they are most vulnerable. It’s the face Flint wears when he’s calculating.

Silver is no stranger to scheming. Before he’d met Flint (and Max), he’d never met anyone with more of a talent for cunning than himself. In the past, he’s revelled in watching Flint’s mind work, in seeing all the ways they are the same. 

But - to see that look, that cunning, directed at their soulmark? It makes something cold and bitter and  _ hurt _ settle in his chest. He knows what Flint was trying to say with that glance:  _ You walk out on me, and what else do you have? _

For Flint to try and subtly manipulate him - by using a bond he has never so much as  _ acknowledged _ before now - is a kind of betrayal Silver had never anticipated. All this time, Silver has been desperate to prove himself good enough, and he never once stopped to ask himself if Flint was worth it.

If Flint still - despite all they are to one another - only sees Silver as another pawn to be used, only sees their soulmarks as another means of manipulating him, then perhaps they’re better off going their separate ways after all.

Silver had been a fool to let himself get caught up in this fantasy, these past few weeks. The stories he’d heard as a lonely boy about soulmarks and destiny and true love were, in fact, just stories. He’s never had a soulmate before, and he certainly doesn’t need one now.

Soon enough, he’ll have his gold, and he can forget all about this man with the moon on his arm and Silver’s heart in his fists.

 

 

*****

 

 

The Barlow woman won’t stop staring at him.

It’s unsettling, mostly because Flint had made it clear upon her and Miss Ashe’s arrival that the crew was to give the ladies a wide berth. 

Silver doesn’t believe in magic, but there’s something about the heaviness of her gaze, the twist of her smile, that makes him understand why the men whisper  _ witch _ as she walks the deck. There is something about Miranda Barlow that seems...not of this world. If he wasn’t almost certain Flint would have his head for it, Silver would very much like to know her.

At first, he thinks her watchfulness is simply because he’s new to the crew, or because of the way he purposefully draws attention to himself with his daily addresses. 

It’s not until he notices (from afar, always from afar, now) Flint and Barlow arguing on the quarterdeck that he fully understands why she’s been staring. The pair of them are bickering in low tones, Flint defensive while his companion digs into him, when she suddenly grabs Flint’s arm, right where Silver knows their moon to be. Flint clenches his jaw, shakes his head at whatever it is she’s saying. Simultaneously, she and Flint turn and look at him, and Silver quickly glances away, cheeks hot.

She  _ knows _ , Silver realizes as he more or less flees to the galley, and he spends the rest of the day in a confused sort of fog. He’s so lost in thought he doesn’t even complain when Randall shoves a bucket of unpeeled potatoes in his direction.

Silver hopes, desperately hopes, that Barlow simply happened to notice his mark. That he brushed too close to her, and in turn she saw the moon that sometimes slips out from underneath his collar if he’s not careful. The alternative, that Flint  _ told _ her, is something Silver doesn’t even remotely know how to handle.

What would he have said? Would he have complained to his companion about the injustice of it all, being saddled with such a man? Would he have listed out all Silver’s flaws, every little thing he does that makes Flint’s eye twitch, his fists clench? Would he have had anything good to say at all about his soulmate?

So Silver hopes for an unlucky coincidence, mostly to spare himself from the multitude of ‘what if’s circling through his head. 

It’s not as if he should  _ care _ what Flint thinks of him. Flint certainly doesn’t give a shit about how Silver feels, after all. 

He spends the rest of the journey to Charlestown pointedly avoiding Barlow, keeping mostly to himself and trying to keep Vincent and Nicholas in line. 

Silver tries very, very hard to ignore the sharp pang he feels in his chest whenever he glances Flint’s way, or when he sees Barlow reach out and take the Captain’s hand. 

It’s just the guilt, Silver’s sure. It’ll fade. 

He’s always been gifted when it comes to lying to himself.

 

 

*****

 

 

Silver, through the agony and in between his screams, finds himself thinking, slightly hysterically, that at least if he’s going to die, he’ll die having proved to Flint he’s more than just some drifter, some nobody.

And if Flint, feeling Silver die -  as they say all soulmates can - finds that he regrets the way he treated Silver, regrets lying to him and pushing him away? Then at least Silver would win, in some small way. 

Billy coming in takes the wind out of his martyrific sails a bit, but at least now he’ll be able to show Flint in person what he’s made of without putting him through the trauma of losing a soulmate.

But then Howell is telling him what has to be done, and he almost wishes Jenks had simply killed him and been done with it. 

_ This is what happens, _ he thinks,  _ when you let yourself care _ . 

He should never have let Flint get under his skin like this, should never have paid attention when Flint told him he  _ mattered _ to these men. 

 

 

*****

 

 

Silver’s not surprised to find he’s still alive, but he  _ is _ slightly disappointed. 

The disappointment is mostly replaced by confusion, however, when he glances over to see Flint watching him, a soft almost-smile on his face. He’s not sure Flint’s ever smiled at him, not genuinely. It’s baffling, but not unpleasant.

Then he sees his leg.

The helplessness that starts to claw at his throat is like nothing he’s ever felt, not even when he’d been seven and his mother had told him to  _ run, darling, _ the torches heading toward their house gleaming through the windows - 

Silver’s so consumed by his terror, so completely and utterly petrified, that it takes a long moment for the pain to register. But when it does,  _ oh _ , how he wants to scream.

And Flint, still not quite smiling, tells him he’s been made quartermaster, as if it’s something Silver should be  _ proud _ of, some sort of accomplishment. 

Silver is finally a true member of this crew, and all he had to do was ruin himself.

There’s a sort of rage brewing inside him, the likes of which Silver hadn’t known he was capable. Here he has finally earned Flint’s attention, his respect, it seems, and he has only done so through misery and suffering. 

There is nothing,  _ nothing _ over which Silver can be proud in this situation, no reality in which Flint should be pleased with him, not when he doesn’t have a  _ fucking _ leg, not when he’ll be an invalid, tied to this wretched ship for the rest of his days.

He tells Flint about Rackham and the gold, careful to keep his involvement out of his tale, and it’s with a bitter satisfaction that he watches the rage simmering in his chest spread to Flint, like some unseen sickness. 

Let Flint rage. Let him rant and rave and tear this ship apart, for Silver himself is incapable of burning the world to the ground from this bench.

 

 

*****

  
  


 

At some point, whether it be as he’s convalescing or in those first few weeks as he slowly takes up the mantle of quartermaster, Silver gets it into his head that this is all Flint’s fault.

If Flint hadn’t been so careless back on the Walrus, Silver never would have had to save him, never would have had to take off his shirt. He never would have seen their soulmark.

If Flint hadn’t challenged him to ingratiate himself with the crew, then Silver would have never given a shit about what happened to the men.

If Flint hadn’t come up with his great scheme to redeem Nassau, if he had just stuck to his guns and taken Vane’s position in the fort, they never would have been in Charlestown in the first place.

If Flint hadn’t made it a point to remind Silver how alone he’d be without him - well, he was right in that regard, which only serves to make Silver angrier.

If, if, if… 

Silver tells himself that Flint is to blame for the misery his life has become, and desperately tries to ignore the voice that creeps into his head at night and whispers _ it was you, it’s always you. _

The rage growing within Silver feels at times like a living thing, like a parasite eating away at him. It is, quite frankly, exhausting; he has no idea how Flint does it, living like this.

Flint’s sudden aversion to all things Silver does nothing to ease his anger. Flint barely talks to him outside of ship-related matters, and even then he hardly looks at him. It’s not that Silver necessarily  _ wants _ to speak with Flint, but the fact that he’s essentially being ignored doesn’t sit well with him either. They’re sharing a cabin, for fuck’s sake, and the most Silver usually gets from Flint is a “good night.”

Silver’s getting more and more concerned that his anger will simply keep growing until it boils over, until he shouts and rants and raves at Flint and gets himself thrown overboard. 

That is, until one night about a month into their crusade, just after Flint and the vanguard have raided a town in Georgia. 

The window bench in the Captain’s cabin on the Walrus is nowhere near as comfortable as the one on the Warship, but it’s far better than a hammock. At any rate, it’s not the stiffness of the bench that has Silver waking in a cold sweat some nights. 

He wakes in the early hours of the morning, fighting against the invisible pairs of hands holding him down, frightened tears clinging to his lashes. It’s not the nightmare, but rather an excruciating pain that had woken him: it would seem that as he thrashed in his sleep he had slammed his stump against the wall of the cabin. He lies there for what feels like hours, breathing heavily and trying to ignore the throbbing agony in his leg. 

It’s then that he hears it: a whimper, barely audible over the sound of the ocean outside the window. He glances over at Flint, sure he’d imagined the sound, only to see, illuminated by the moon, the Captain curled up on his side, his face a picture of misery. Soon enough, Flint begins to mumble in his sleep, and Silver’s stomach drops.

“No… please… Miranda… don’t go…”

Silver feels his anger all but evaporate, and in its place comes fierce, bitter guilt. He’s spent all his time letting this rage toward Flint fester, blaming the captain for what had happened to his leg, and had not once stopped to think about what Flint himself was going through. Flint too is learning to cope with a great loss.

Flint could never understand what Silver’s going through, yes, but the reverse is true as well: Silver’s never had anyone as devoted to him as Mrs. Barlow seemed to be to Flint, and vice versa. He’s certainly never had a love like that before. 

It becomes clear in the following days, once Silver finally pays attention, that Flint is struggling. When he presents himself to the men he’s impassioned and emboldened, every bit the hardened leader they need, but in private… what Silver had assumed was aloof indifference is in fact withdrawn suffering. Flint is grieving - or more accurately trying to compartmentalize his grief - and Silver can’t believe he hadn’t seen it before.

After this revelation, there’s only one place for Silver’s impotent rage to turn; inward. 

The first time his peg had slipped out from under him while he was out on deck, the first time he’d gone crashing to the ground in full view of every man on the crew, the humiliation had been so acute he’d thought he might be sick. The second, third, and fourth stumbles are no less mortifying, and the shame he feels each time he has to be helped to his feet is only worsened by the pity he sees in the men’s eyes. 

Silver had never considered himself a particularly proud man, before his body’s limitations had stripped him of his every dignity.

When, a month into his tenure as quartermaster, Silver walks outside to see ropes strung up along the main deck and the smiling faces of his crew, the shame is magnified tenfold.  _ We’ll take care of you _ , they’d said, and so they are, but it makes his skin crawl to know he has to be coddled like this, to know that one of them must have had to ask Flint’s permission to put up these ropes for their helpless quartermaster. He smiles, claps Muldoon on the shoulder, thanks them for their thoughtfulness, and then he goes into the galley and breaks a chair against the wall. It doesn’t help his mood.

Flint still won’t look at him, but Silver can’t really blame him: he can barely stand to look at  _ himself _ most days. Still, it hurts to know that even his soulmate finds him lacking physically now. 

Silver has to be honest with himself: he does still want to be with Flint. He  _ misses _ Flint, in a way. He misses the way his bright eyes would light up when he grew angry, or excited; the way he would smile reluctantly when Silver had said something particularly clever; the way he would roll his eyes at any particular act of idiocy. 

Flint is now a shell of his former self, but in many ways so is Silver. They’re both changed, and neither of them for the better. 

Silver wonders if perhaps they could one day be  _ changed _ together.

 

 

*****

 

 

“You’re not welcome in my head,” Flint says, and Silver feels it like a knife to the gut. 

Flint turns from him dismissively, because Silver is nothing if not inconsequential to the man. 

Silver stands there staring at his back like a fool, before leaving hastily and heading below deck. The last thing he needs is for Flint to see how deeply his words have cut. 

Silver just - he doesn’t understand. He’s put himself through constant agony to prove he’s a worthy quartermaster, walking on this damn peg. He thinks, at this point, he’s convinced the men they were right to put their faith in him, but he’d be lying if he couldn’t admit to himself that it’s Flint’s approval he’s really been after. He’s been after it for longer than he cares to think about, probably even before he’d seen Flint’s mark on the beach.

The captain’s just made it abundantly clear that he does not, in fact, have it. 

Howell asked this morning to meet with him, and so Silver goes to wait in the hold. He sits heavily on a bench, leaning forward and putting his head in his hands. He tugs at his hair in useless anger, desperately trying to clear his mind. He’s so lost in his own head, in his own despair, that he doesn’t hear Howell approach. He about jumps out of his skin as the doctor touches his shoulder. 

Howell frowns as Silver looks at him, no doubt noticing how red-rimmed his eyes are, how his face is lined with pain. Luckily, this is easily explained away as the constant ache in his stump, rather than the one in his heart. 

Silver is briefly distracted from his thoughts of Flint as he takes in the look on Howell’s face when he sees the stump. 

To say Howell is displeased with Silver’s self-care is an understatement. Silver tries to brush off his concern as best he can, assuring the doctor he’ll lean more heavily on the ropes, but he stops dead when Howell tells him he might need to take more of his leg. 

The jolt of fear he feels, hearing that, is enough to make him consider using the crutches. But he knows, he  _ knows _ , he can’t be seen like that. He can’t let the men know how bad it’s gotten, can’t let  _ Flint _ know how bad it’s gotten. 

So he takes a deep steadying breath, bracing himself, and shoves his stump back into the boot, unable to help the grunt of pain he lets out. At least it’s not a scream, which would have been his preferred form of self-expression.

He nods his thanks to Howell, goes to get up, but he pauses as the doctor speaks again.

“Doesn’t the Captain - it must upset him, to see you like this. Can’t he help tend to it, when you’re alone together?”

Silver whips to face him, incredulous. “Why the fuck would he do that?”

“...Because he’s your soulmate?” Howell replies, like it’s obvious. And maybe it is, to anyone who isn’t bound to James fucking Flint.

Silver sighs heavily, leaning back and letting his head thunk against the beam behind him. “I think you’ve misunderstood the nature of my relationship with the Captain, Doctor.”

Howell’s positively baffled. It looks as if the man’s reevaluating his entire perception of the two of them.  “Wait - you’re not… ? But - back at the Urca - and then when you were working with him against Hornigold - and he  _ insisted _ you stay in his cabin after Charlestown- and - and you’re  _ soulmates! _ I’ve seen your marks!” he adds for good measure, as if Silver had forgotten.

“Yes, well, Captain Flint is far too important to take up with an invalid, soulmate or not.”

Howell says nothing to that, but his eyes are full of pity, and that’s almost worse. 

_ We’ll take care of you,  _ Muldoon had said, and Howell had nodded along, trying to reassure Silver as he’d cried and begged for him to stop. Silver doesn’t intend to find out if this “care” extends to his emotional wellbeing. 

Silver does get up this time, unwilling to hear whatever else Howell has to say, and leaves without another word. 

 

 

*****

 

 

Silver manages to avoid Flint for the rest of the day, distracting himself with menial tasks and managing minor disputes between the men. 

But then night falls, and he’s left with nothing but his own maudlin thoughts as he stares up at the ceiling of the hold from his hammock.

_ In my head, you are not welcome. _

He grimaces, shifting over to his good side and closing his eyes, measuring his breaths as he tries to force himself to sleep.

_ In my head, you are not welcome. _

A sigh, and he’s on his back again, thoughts as always turned to Flint. He’d just - he’d wanted Flint to know that he understood, that he  _ cared _ , that he didn’t want him to  _ fucking die _ , and -

_ In my head, you are not welcome. _

He throws back his thin blanket, sitting up and grabbing a crutch from where he’d thrown it on the ground beneath his hammock two weeks ago. He hobbles his way up on deck, and, before he can think better of it and stop himself, lets himself into Flint’s cabin. 

Why the man refuses to lock his door at night, Silver will never understand. He’s never once had his own room, with its own lock, but if he had it would never be open to anyone. 

He makes his way over to the bunk as quietly as he can, leaning back until he’s practically sitting on Flint’s desk, in a mirror to their positions from this afternoon. He’s surprised Flint hadn’t woken when he came in, but he supposes he’s a little quieter with the crutch than with the boot.

He stares at Flint, really taking him in, and finds that he cannot stop the words from spilling out of his mouth any more than he can stop the waves from battering the sides of the ship, or the moon from pulling the tide. He looks out the window, thinks of all the places he should be right now, could be right now, and wonders at the fact that he doesn’t  _ want _ to be anywhere else, despite everything.

“You’re right, you know. I don’t understand what you’re going through. I’ve never loved anyone the way you loved Mrs. Barlow, and certainly no one’s ever loved me the way she loved you. You - you were each other’s anchors, and the closest I’ve ever come to something like that was when I pulled you onto that beach.”

He glances back over at Flint’s sleeping form, measuring his steady breaths, reassuring himself that his words haven’t woken the captain. He swallows against the lump forming in his throat.

“But I don’t - I was  _ made _ for you. The universe  _ chose _ me to be yours, and that still isn’t enough for you. How can that not be enough? What more can I possibly - ”

His voice starts to crack, and he cuts himself off with a shuddering gasp, wipes the dampness from his eyes. He never used to cry, before he met Flint.

“I’ve - I’ve spent my whole life with nothing. I’ve never mattered to anyone, and until I joined this  _ fucking _ crew no one ever much mattered to me. And now I find that the one person who was supposed to be mine, who I was supposed to  _ belong to _ , doesn’t want me. It’s funny: we spend our lives hearing stories about how incredible it will be to meet our soulmates, and all mine does is tell me I’m not welcome. It’s fairly on theme for me, really.”

He sighs, running a hand through his loose hair as he looks back out the window, the moon just barely illuminating the room. Flint shifts in his sleep, but Silver doesn’t pay it much mind. He’d learned in his days on that window bench in the warship that Flint either sleeps like the dead or moves restlessly through the night. There’s no in between.

“I don’t know how you do it, keeping all that rage inside you. I’ve tried so hard to be angry with you. And I was. I genuinely was. I can’t even begin to describe what it’s like to have your  _ fucking soulmate  _ remind you that there’s no one in the world who gives a shit about you.” 

And then, because Flint’s not really listening, and because it’s been driving him near to madness these past few months, he asks, voice shaking: “Did you do it on purpose? Did you remind me that I had a place on this crew, that there was nowhere for me to go, because you knew I might cling to the idea of a future with my soulmate? You said there was no other place where I would matter, and I thought - I hoped, that you meant I might matter to you. And when I realized you could be trying to manipulate me, using what we are to each other without ever having acknowledged it to me? God, I’d never been so angry.”

He looks down at where his hands are clutching at the captain’s desk, blinking away tears.

“Now? Now I’m just tired. I’m burnt out. I’ve spent this whole time asking myself why you’ve been so callous, lying to myself as I pretend to have no idea what could make you so distrustful of me. But let’s face it, I know what I am. ‘Know thyself’, isn’t it? That one’s Socrates. Or was it Plato? I - I know you have an affinity for Greek works, and I thought - I don’t know, I thought maybe if I just read enough of those books of yours then you would talk to me again.”

He shakes his head, laughing at his own pathetic attempts at forming a bond with Flint where it was so clearly unwanted. He clears his throat softly, going back to the subject at hand.

“I understand, you know. I’ve understood all along, really, why you won’t talk about it. _ I  _ wouldn’t want to talk about it, if I were you. In fact, if I were you, I’d be pretty fucking pissed about the shit hand I’d been dealt. First you’re saddled with some lying,  _ nothing _ of a man, and then he goes and becomes a cripple? Rotten luck, Captain.”

Silver lets the tears fall, just for a moment or two; silent, heaving things. Self pity has always been something at which he’s excelled, but at least, he reasons, this time it’s somewhat warranted. Then he straightens up, sniffles a bit, and goes to stand.

“Anyway, all this is to say that I - I’ll leave you be, from now on. At least, when it comes to matters of your mind, or your heart, where I’m not welcome. And I’m sorry, too, I suppose, for trying to force some kind of connection between us, for reading too much into these bloody marks on our skin.”

He walks away, feeling somehow both light with relief and heavy with grief.  He pauses, however, at the door. 

“I - I’m not sorry, though, that it’s you. In case you were wondering.”

He leaves, closing the door carefully behind him. He’s so wrapped up in his own head, rubbing his hand against the moon on his chest, that he doesn’t hear the creaking of the cot moving, or the sound of the door opening once more, or even feel the heavy stare fixed on his back as he makes his way slowly down the stairs.

 

 

*****

 

 

“If you’re not strong enough to do what needs to be done, then I’ll do it for you.”

In another life, coming from another person, it could have been almost romantic, that phrase. What is a soulmate meant for, if not to carry the other when their load grows too much to bear? 

But Flint’s words aren’t meant to reassure. Not in the least. Flint never says anything lightly, and this is no exception; he means to wound, and wound deeply. Anyone with a discerning eye could see how anxiously Silver tries to smother and ignore his new weaknesses, how desperate he is to seem the strong, capable quartermaster.

Flint walks away without another word, and Silver manages to wait two whole minutes before storming after him, leaving Billy to deal with the bodies.  _ Fuck _ Flint, if he thinks he can have the last word on this, if he thinks they’re not going to talk about what just happened. Silver pushes the door open without knocking, fully prepared to start shouting, crew morale be damned -

Only to find Flint on the floor, curled in on himself and sobbing.

Silver’s righteous anger - though still justified, in his mind - fades almost instantly. 

“Captain?” He asks cautiously, moving toward Flint hesitantly. 

Flint doesn’t answer, his gaze vacant as he gasps for breath.

“Flint?” Silver calls out to him again, and still there is no response. He slowly and ungracefully makes his way to the floor, half-crouched and half-sitting before Flint. It’s not comfortable in the least, and he can already feel his stump begin to throb from the odd angle it’s at, but Silver needs Flint  _ here _ , with him, not lost in the recesses of his mind. He reaches out, placing a careful hand on Flint’s knee, calling his name once more.

He then has to immediately scramble backward, as Flint startles badly and strikes out instinctually. He just barely misses Silver’s jaw. 

“Flint! Flint, it’s me. It’s Silver,” he says urgently, raising his hands in what he hopes seems placating rather than threatening.

There is a moment, a fleeting moment, where Flint’s panicked expression smoothes into something - something Silver hasn’t seen before, something Silver can’t for the life of him interpret, before his face hardens and twists in rage. 

“Get out.” Flint says, his voice shaking. “Get the  _ fuck _ out.”

Silver watches as Flint tries and fails to get to his feet, furiously swiping at his wet cheeks. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Captain.”

Flint’s expression grows tortured, and he clutches his head in his hands. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for  _ you _ . I don’t need you here. I don’t  _ want _ you here.”

Silver doesn’t know if Flint’s referring to his presence in the cabin or Flint’s life itself. “I know. But I am here, and you can’t change that. So let me be here.”

Flint shakes his head. He won’t look at Silver. “Just  _ go _ , you  _ fucking _ \- ”

He cuts himself off abruptly as Silver reaches out, taking one of his hands into his own. Silver shifts until he’s sitting next to Flint, leaning back against the bookshelf.

“I know you’re not - that  _ I’m _ not - ” Silver blames the lack of water for the way his words are failing him, rather than any nervousness he feels at being so close to Flint. “Just let me be here for you, in this moment. You can go back to hating me later.”

“I don’t...” Flint starts, but whatever he means to say trails off into a deep sigh, and he lifts a shaky hand to cover his brow. He starts to weep in earnest, and Silver - once he gets over the shock that Flint has actually allowed himself to be vulnerable in front of him - leans more solidly against him, squeezing his hand tightly. 

It’s been some time since Silver has had to grieve anyone he truly loved. The pain he feels over Muldoon’s death, though it haunts him, is not quite the same as the agony he went through when his mother was taken from him, when those men came and - 

The point is, though Silver was only a boy when he last lost someone so integral to his person, he remembers how easy it had been to get lost in his pain and forget the world around him. In holding Flint’s hand as the man is overwhelmed by his own outpouring of emotion, Silver hopes to provide a grounding tether to the present. 

Eventually Flint’s breathing steadies, and he slowly seems to come back to himself. He extracts himself from Silver slowly and surely, though he does reach out and offer Silver a hand in getting to his feet. 

Silver heads to the door, though he turns back, just once, to make sure Flint will be alright. All he gets is a solemn nod in thanks, a clear dismissal if he’s ever seen one. Silver takes his leave, and tries not to dwell on the fact that those brief moments in the cabin might have been the closest he’ll ever be to Flint.

 

 

*****

 

 

Nothing changes after their brief moment of intimacy, though Silver would have been deluding himself if he’d truly believed it might have. 

Silver’s so tired, in a way he never has been before, and he knows it’s not just from the hunger and the thirst. He’s tired of the way, even now, Flint seems to look through him rather than at him, as though he’s just another obstacle and not his only ally. 

It’s desperation that drives him to force Flint onto the longboat, because if he goes one more moment without being truly  _ seen _ by the man he might go mad. 

He’s terrified, in truth, to lay bare the details of his betrayal, but it would be better to have Flint loathe and resent him, but still respect him, than think of him as lesser. 

“You know, I've had my fill of hearing you go on about this crew being too weak to keep up with you. Some of them may be weaker than you, some of them may be less smart, but don't you for a second believe I fit that description. Whatever happens out here, one thing is certain. You will account for me.”

Silver doesn’t understand why Flint can’t seem to comprehend this simple truth. He has literally met his match in Silver. That’s the whole  _ fucking point _ of a soulmate.

“So you can decide to fight me, maybe kill me,” which Silver knows is doubtful, but he wouldn’t put anything past Flint; even killing his own soulmate doesn’t seem out of the question as of late, “and figure out a way of hauling yourself back to that ship alone or acknowledge the fact that you and I would be a hell of a lot better off as partners than as rivals.”

If Silver weren’t so exhausted, he’d be yelling all this. Of  _ course _ they’d be better off as partners: they’re  _ soulmates _ . He wishes Flint would acknowledge it, even for one moment, but he knows better than to hope at this point. Hope has forsaken him, much as the wind has forsaken these waters.

It’s a difficult fight to hold onto his anger instead of slipping into despair at how little Flint seems to care about him; his voice quivers pitifully only a few times, but he thinks he mostly manages to come across as frustrated and tired, rather than lonely and sullen.

Then Flint asks what he did with his share of the gold, and he can practically feel his hold on the situation slipping away. 

“Why would you do that?” Flint asks when he admits to giving up the gold, and Silver knows, no matter how he answers, that it will be all to easy for the captain to read between the lines.

“Because I saw no way to hold it and remain a part of this crew,” Silver responds, and he can tell from the way Flint’s spine slouches, almost resigned, that he’s picked up on what Silver cannot put to words: he saw no way to hold it and stay with Flint. No matter how angry he’s been, he couldn’t just leave his soulmate, the only tangible bond he’d had at the time. 

The whale is long gone, rotted and stinking, but Silver’s disappointment only lasts a moment; then they’re off, after the shark and exhilarated. Silver leans back against the boat when it’s done, panting and incredulous, and then the most remarkable thing happens: Flint smiles at him.

Flint  _ smiles _ , a weary, chuckling thing, and it’s - Silver can barely remember the last time Flint genuinely smiled at him. Flint’s face is sunken and sallow, there are dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks are splattered with the shark’s blood, but he’s smiling, and it’s the most incredible thing Silver’s ever seen. He hates how it makes his heart race, makes his blood sing. He’d kill a thousand sharks if Flint would keep smiling at him like that, he’d do anything Flint asked. 

He hates himself, and Flint, for it.

 

 

*****

 

 

When he feels that knife slide across his neck, when the guard starts to pull him from the cage in the dead of the night, there is a brief moment where he is back on that warship, chains around his wrists as he’s dragged toward the captain’s cabin. 

But there is no axe in the Princess’s cabin, only books and quills and a pair of beautiful, sharp eyes. 

Silver, who has always prided himself on his ability to  _ see _ people, to figure out what they want, cannot for the life of him get a read on her. He tries to tells her what she wants to hear, then he goes for what he hopes is the most truthful answer, and still she is not satisfied. She dismisses him, has him sent away, and he cannot abide that. 

“Wait a minute. Wait - wait, wait a minute,” he stutters as the guard starts to take him back, shrugging off the firm grip and turning to her urgently. “I think you see our interests are more closely aligned than your mother does. I have two dozen men in a cage out there of the opinion that she intends to kill us all sooner than later. And you're going to do nothing about it?”

She turns to him, those dark eyes bright with curiosity, with challenge. She nods at the guard, and again they are alone.

“I wonder, Mr. Quartermaster,” she starts, walking toward him with intent. His instincts are screaming at him to take a step back, to distance himself from her and avoid a knife in the gut for coming to close to the revered Princess, but he stands his ground, unwilling to show fear. She raises her hand until it hovers just over his chest, where the edge of his mark is peeking out from his open collar. “If the one who shares this moon is not amongst those men you so desperately wish to protect.”

Silver feels his whole body stiffen, alarmed at having been caught out so easily. This woman, she’s - she’s far too clever. He could deny it, call up some easily spun lie, but in this moment he wonders if he shouldn’t take this opportunity to try and humanize not only himself and his crew, but Flint as well. 

He meets her eyes, trying his best to let the complicated, painful love he so carefully hides show. “Yes. My captain.”

Her brows raise. “ _ That _ man? The one with such rage in his soul? Such harshness in his eyes? This is your love?”

“We don’t choose the ones we love. And this particular love was chosen for me.” he responds, reaching up and rubbing his palm across his moon, a nervous tick. He’s never once wished that Flint wasn’t his soulmate, never doubted that they could be brilliant together. But this doesn’t mean that it’s been easy, or that he hasn’t at times wanted to throw in the towel and give up on Flint all together. 

“I cannot imagine such a man could carry any softness in his heart.”

Silver shrugs. “For a time, neither could I. But he can, and he does.” Just not for him. Though he’s not so foolish as to say that. “I don’t know how I can - these men are pirates, yes. We are all criminals, we all have blood on our hands. But there is friendship there, too. Brotherhood. And love.”

The Princess gives him a long, assessing look, her brows furrowed. Finally, she calls for the guard again. “You have given me much to think about.”

That’s all she says as a farewell, and Silver is taken back to the cage not knowing if he’s made any difference at all. Still, he’ll tell Flint and the men that he has found a way in, if only to maintain hope. 

 

 

*****

 

 

When Flint tells him he’s prepared to let this camp be the end of Captain Flint, of this legend he’s built of himself, Silver doesn’t know how to react. There’s a part of him that greedily stores away every shred of information Flint has shared of his past and himself, another that’s simply grateful Flint trusts him enough to confide in him, and a very loud part that’s howling in anguish at the thought of letting him go. 

So he goes for his gut instinct.

“ _ No _ ,” he says vehemently, because if these pardons are the end of Captain Flint, then they are the end of JohnSilverandCaptainFlint. “No, no, no -  _ nothing _ is inevitable here. I’m showing you a way in which we can survive this.”

Flint looks at him with patient, understanding eyes, and Silver hates that it is only  _ now _ , when the appears to have given up, that he looks at him with anything other than disdain or aloofness. He tells Silver that the Maroon Queen is too devoted to her people to risk their exposure, and he’s right, of course he’s right, but -

“I don’t know that I have any more lies left in me,” Flint says, turning away from him, and Silver wants to scream.

If that’s the case, then why won’t he just talk to Silver? Not as a quartermaster, or a shipmate, or even a fucking thief, but as a  _ soulmate _ . Why won’t he look at Silver, and acknowledge what they are to each other, here at the end of all things? 

Silver lies down then, turning his back to Flint and trying not to show how much agony the simple movement brings to his leg. 

People say that when one half of a soul bond dies, the other can feel every second as they slip from this world. Silver hopes it’s true, hopes that he can, in his final moments, feel reassured in the knowledge that he was Flint’s. That he belonged somewhere, welcome or not. 

 

 

*****

 

 

Flint seems to have resigned himself to his suicide mission, but that doesn’t mean Silver has. 

It’s amazing, what a whole day in the sun can do to one’s maudlin, self-pitying state of mind. He’s almost worried it will come back with nightfall. 

Flint’s sequestered himself to a corner of the cage, presumably for privacy as he prepares for his meeting with the Queen, and Silver just - he can’t  _ not _ try.

“Billy doesn’t give a shit if you die tomorrow. But I suppose you knew that already. And you know, part of me feels like I… I should be with Billy. After everything you’ve put me through, I should be unbothered by the idea of trading your life for the rest of the crew’s. But I  _ am _ bothered by it, and you know why.” Silver says quietly, taking in every minute detail of Flint’s sunken, exhausted face, every freckle, every speck of dirt. If Flint is going to die tonight, then Silver is damn well going to look his fill.

“I understand it. I understand the allure of ensuring that no one will ever think you the villain you fear you are. What a waste, it seems to me, knowing it doesn’t have to be this way, knowing the man who talked me into giving a shit about this crew? Why, he could talk those people out there into anything. If he wanted to. _ ” _

Flint finally looks at him then, his eyes tired and wary. He holds Silver’s gaze for only a brief moment, before looking back out into the night. 

Silver sighs, taking that as yet another dismissal - a final one at that, and doesn’t that make his chest go tight - and he starts to get up. But Flint’s hand shoots out, grabs his wrist, and so Silver settles back down, looking at him curiously.

Flint shifts until he’s facing Silver more fully. Silver can’t parse out the expression on his face. “I wanted to - if this doesn’t go well…”

If is a far cry from the surety Flint had displayed only fifteen minutes before, Silver thinks, but he remains silent, waiting for his captain to say what he needs.

“I just,” he reaches out, until his hand hovers over Silver’s mark - just like the Princess last night, though there is no one,  _ no one  _ other than Flint he could bear to have touch it - and Silver feels as though they’re suddenly made of glass, like any movement he makes could shatter this moment. “I’m not sorry. That it was you.”

Silver’s breath catches, and he stares at Flint with wide, nervous eyes. “You heard me? That night, after the raid, you heard me?”

Flint doesn’t let his hand rest on Silver’s chest, but instead moves it to cup Silver’s cheek. “I’m so sorry, John, that I ever made you feel unwanted. I assure you, that could not be farther from the truth.”

Silver can’t help it: his eyes fill with tears, and he sucks in a hiccuping, trembling breath. Flint thumbs away a tear that slips down his cheek. 

“There’s so much I have to tell you, so much I want you to understand, and now…” Flint shakes his head sadly, staring at the moon on Silver’s chest with longing.

Silver takes Flint’s hand from off his cheek, and places his palm directly over the mark. They both gasp, heat thrilling through every nerve ending in their bodies. There’s a feeling of  _ rightness _ that settles over Silver, peace like he’s never known as Flint carefully traces his fingers around their crescent moon. 

Without thinking, without hesitating, Silver reaches over and takes Flint’s head in his hands, pressing their foreheads together as he runs his fingers over the surprisingly soft fuzz along his skull. He sighs, trying hard to remain composed in the face of such an overwhelming influx of emotion.

Flint can’t seem to stop staring at where his hand is touching Silver’s mark, and he understands, he really does, but he needs to look at those sea-green, impossible eyes as he says this. He cups both of Flint’s cheeks in both his hands, holds him there so he can’t possibly look away.

“If you die tonight, before I get the chance to yell at you properly about all this, I’ll never forgive you.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Most of the crew takes Flint for dead after the first four hours. Silver might have too, if it weren’t for the lack of distress he feels through the bond. Surely, if the Maroon Queen had Flint killed, Silver would have felt it. 

He stays up all night, staring at the Queen’s quarters, as the light from the torches dances then slowly dwindles with the approaching dawn. His eyes feel heavy, his shoulders droop, and yet he cannot risk taking his eyes away for a single moment. 

It is only when he sees Flint emerge from the hut, whole and hale, that he allows himself to turn away, to close his eyes and simply breathe. It’s mere minutes before they’re released, and Billy’s pulling him to his feet.

It takes longer than Silver is comfortable with for him to make the trek down the stairs to Flint. Though perhaps, for once, it’s good that he’s slowed down by his peg: if he had two good legs, he’s not sure he’d be able to stop himself from simply running to Flint’s side. 

It takes more self restraint than Silver had known he possessed not to throw his arms around Flint, to hold him and make him promise not to take such a stupid risk again. Perhaps now Flint would actually  _ listen _ to such a demand, or at least pretend to for Silver’s peace of mind.

So when Flint tells him of his plans to hunt down Vane, Silver can’t help his disappointment. He’d been so sure after last night that Flint was ready to finally  _ talk _ about the two of them, but instead he’s simply chasing his next target. Flint just - he never stops. Not even for this.

Silver’s been all but forgotten, it seems, in the face of Flint’s bloodlust. 

He takes a step forward, intent on getting Flint to at least sleep a little before he starts rallying for war once more, but his bad leg buckles under him and he’s left to stumble against Flint’s chest like a swooning maiden. Flint’s expression goes from determined to worried as he catches Silver. 

“Jesus, Silver, did you sleep at all?”

“You’re one to talk,” Silver grumbles, glaring up at him.

Flint rolls his eyes. “Come on. The Queen’s given me a room not far from here; the men can take care of themselves for an hour or two.”

Silver frowns in confusion even as he lets Flint pull his arm around his shoulder. “But I thought - you said - Vane?”

“Silver, none of us have had a proper meal in weeks, or a peaceful night’s rest. I don’t think even you could convince the men to go back out to sea right now.”

The room Flint’s been given is sparse: a bed, a table and some chairs, and a small window. Silver pays little mind to those, however, as his eyes go straight to the bowl of mangoes on the table. God, but he’s hungry. 

Flint sets him down on one of the chairs, sits across from him, and pours them each a glass of water. Silver takes one of the mangoes without hesitation, fully intending on jamming his thumb in the top at the stem and attempting to pry it open, but Flint snatches it from him before he can start to dismember the fruit.

“Jesus, what are you, an animal?” He asks, shaking his head, half exasperated and half amused. Silver is, briefly, distracted by the thought that they might, if he and Flint ever get their shit together, have to have a discussion about Jesus, and Silver’s lack of faith in him. Then Flint pulls out one of his daggers and starts to cut it up properly, and Silver’s mind returns to the task at hand.

“Wha - they gave you your weapons back? Why didn’t they give me mine?”

“You didn’t ask,” Flint says, as if Silver is being particularly thick. Silver would be more annoyed, but Flint hands over a piece of mango and he elects to forgive the captain for the time being. 

Silver doesn’t think he’s ever tasted anything as good as this mango. Flint seems to feel the same, though he eats with much more restraint than Silver. They eat in silence, Silver focused entirely on his food and Flint staring at him with - well, his usual Flint-like intensity. 

Still, after a time, Silver grows weary of Flint’s heavy, quiet gaze on him. He reaches for the knife and cuts himself another piece from a new fruit. If they’re going to have this talk, Silver is damn well going to have some more mango. He hands Flint half, because they should be partners even in mango-eating.

“What is it?” He asks with his mouth full, half-hoping Flint will comment on his poor table manners rather than whatever it is that’s made him look so very serious.

“They knew.”

No such luck, then. Silver raises a brow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Flint elaborates.

“About our marks. They knew. You told the Princess, that night?”

Silver shrugs. “She asked. I took it as a way to humanize you in her eyes, make you a more sympathetic figure. Evidently, it worked.”

Flint nods, thoughtful. There’s something he’s not saying, though, something he doesn’t quite know how to say. Silver knows the look on his face, the one he wears when he’s weighing his words.

“She seems to think you’re very much in love with me.”

Silver pauses, fruit halfway to his lips. 

“And if I were?”

Flint smiles. “Well, it would certainly make this part easier.”

“Which part?” Silver asks, but Flint’s already answering, leaning over the table to press their lips together gently. Silver drops the slice.

It feels, for a moment, as though time itself has stopped. Silver almost wishes it really had - that the two of them could stay like this forever, frozen in time. But soon enough the rest of the world rushes in, and he can barely hear the strangled gasp he lets out over the sound of his pounding heart as he lurches forward, clutching at Flint’s cheeks like a man half-drowned. 

If Silver had thought that mango was good before, it’s nothing compared to the taste of it on Flint’s lips.

Flint smiles into the kiss, before pulling back to just look at Silver, his eyes terribly fond. “See? Easy.”

Silver lets out a laugh that borders on hysterical. “I assure you, Captain, nothing about this has been remotely easy.”

At this, Flint’s pleased, open expression falls slightly, and Silver immediately wishes he could take back his words. 

Flint looks down at his hands, fiddling with the ring on his pinky. Silver worries briefly that Flint won’t respond at all, that he’s somehow already fucked this up. It wouldn’t be the first time Flint’s ended a discussion before Silver’s ready. 

“I know. I - I don’t know where to begin. It’s been so long, and still I find myself struggling to find - “ Flint’s growing distressed, Silver can tell, and that’s the last thing he wants right now. 

He gets up, slowly and painfully making his way around the table. He takes Flint’s still fidgeting hands in his own. Silver waits until Flint lifts his head and meets his eyes, and then presses a kiss to his cheeks, his forehead. 

“It can wait. You’re tired, I’m tired; let’s just sleep, alright? You can tell me in the morning.”

Flint lets himself be led to the bed along the far wall, lets Silver push his jacket off his shoulders and toss it on a nearby chair. Silver sits next to him and, after a brief moment of hesitation, starts to take off his peg. He doesn’t dare look too closely at the inflamed, painful stump, instead simply shucking his shirt and lying down on the far side of the bed. 

He tucks his arm under his head and simply watches Flint, mesmerized as he lifts his shirt over his head and slowly reveals miles and miles of pale, freckled skin. His breath catches as he sees the moon on his bicep,  _ their _ moon, for only the second time. 

When Flint finally lies down beside him, Silver doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of his hands, of where their knees are brushing slightly. He wants - oh how he  _ wants _ \- to move closer to Flint, to burrow against him and just be  _ held _ . He doesn’t know what exactly  _ Flint _ wants, though, so he just smiles. He’s going for reassuring, but he most likely just seems nervous.

Flint returns the smile, then moves onto his back, lifting an arm and then an eyebrow in invitation. Immediately, Silver shifts closer, draping his bad leg over Flint’s. Lying there - with Flint’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, his head on Flint’s chest and his hand resting against his belly - it feels right. He feels something in himself settle.

“John,” Flint says, and - oh. That’s...Silver likes that. It’s odd; he’s only been ‘John’ for six months or so, and yet it still feels so intimate to hear Flint call him by that name. He thinks he wouldn’t mind being ‘John’ for the rest of his life, if he could just hear Flint say it like that.

Silver lifts his head, resting his chin on Flint’s sternum. “Yes?”

Flint reaches out, tugging the tie from Silver’s hair and then running his fingers through the messy curls. “Nothing. I just wanted to look at you a little longer. Thought I might not get another chance last night.”

His cheeks heat at that. He couldn’t stop it even if he tried. He hides his flustered smile against Flint’s chest. “That’s not fair. I’m too exhausted to flirt properly.”

He feels more than hears Flint’s answering chuckle. “I don’t want you to flirt, or put on a show. I just want you.”

It takes so long for Silver to answer, for him to find the words, that Flint stops moving his hands through his hair. 

“John?”

“No one’s wanted ‘just me’ in a very long time,” he says finally, quietly.

Flint presses a kiss to the top of his head, then places a finger under Silver’s chin. Silver lifts himself onto an elbow, and lets Flint kiss him once, twice. 

“Rest, John.”

“One more kiss, first.”

 

 

*****

 

 

It’s night when Silver finally stirs, the shine from the moon peeking through the lone window in Flint’s quarters. It takes a moment for him to realize what it is that’s woken him; it’s near-silent in the camp, with nothing in the air but the low murmurs of far-off conversations and the crickets and chirps of the island’s bugs and birds. It’s the low thrum of warmth he feels singing through his veins that clues him in.

Silver and Flint have switched positions in their sleep, it seems: he’s on his back, and the Captain is draped across him, propped up slightly on his elbow and tracing the mark on Silver’s collarbone with gentle, awed fingers. 

“Captain…?”

An all too familiar shadow passes over Flint’s face, and he lets out a melancholy sigh, dropping his head back onto Silver’s chest. His fingers, however, continue their exploration of Silver’s moon.

“His name was Thomas,” Flint says, quiet and trembling and full of emotion. “And I loved him.”

Silver wraps his arm around Flint, running his hand soothingly across his bare back. 

Flint lays everything bare: he tells Silver every painful, detail; from his and Thomas’s first meeting to their first kiss to…

“He and Miranda were soulmates, you know. Their marks were a cluster of three stars, Thomas’s on his wrist and Miranda’s on her ankle. Thomas would always say we were meant to find each other, for what are the stars without their moon? He found it poetic, I think, to know that together we three made up the night sky.”

“That is a nice thought,” Silver agrees, surprised at the lack of jealousy he feels. He supposes part of him is simply glad that Flint had someone. 

“Miranda told me more than once that whomever my soulmate was would simply have to get used to their presence, because they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, and they found me first, after all.”

Silver chuckles at that. “I would have liked to have known them, I think.”

Flint still won’t look up at him, but Silver can feel him tuck a smile against his chest. “You and Thomas would have gotten along well, I think. He was always such a little shit, when he wanted to be. And Miranda so enjoyed riling me up, much like yourself.”

Silence falls between them then, as Flint seems to be working himself up to tell the next part of their story.

“What happened to Thomas, Captain?”

Flint’s voice grows thick and hoarse with emotion as he clenches his hand into a fist. “He was taken from us.”

As he hears the manner in which Thomas was stolen away from Flint and Miranda, Silver suddenly understands Flint’s unbridled rage toward England.

“They called me a monster, for coming between a bonded pair. I was to blame, for seducing Thomas away from Miranda, for encouraging him to engage in  _ sodomy _ ,” Flint spits out the word, as though it’s particularly hateful. Undoubtedly the manner in which it was thrown at him was nothing short of loathsome. “With a man who wasn’t his soulmate. Those high-and-mighty lords and admirals could hardly stomach the thought of two men who  _ are _ soulmates being together, let alone two who weren’t paired.”

“So they just - took him away? Called him mad and Miranda a harlot?” Flint nods, and Silver holds him even tighter. “Well, I can say with utter conviction now that I’m glad you took the Maria Aleyne, and that you slaughtered Peter Ashe. If anyone deserved to die, it was those men.”

To be called a monster, simply for falling in love… Silver can’t even imagine what kind of toll it must have taken on Flint.

“Thank you, for telling me this. I know it can’t have been easy.”

Flint props himself onto one elbow, looking down at Silver with a wistful expression. At first, Silver thinks Flint’s simply trying to ascertain his reaction, but he’s proven wrong when Flint speaks.

“That was merely the first half of a long overdue apology.”

He reaches out again, using his free hand to yet again touch the moon on Silver’s chest. It’s as if he can’t help himself from touching it, now that he  _ can _ .  

“When we first met, I admit I was irritated to discover that after all those years of waiting, my soulmate was the very person standing in the way of my and Thomas and Miranda’s dream.” Silver grimaces at that, but Flint is quick to assuage him. “I should have told you then. As soon as I knew. You would have behaved differently if you’d known we were soulmates. You  _ did _ behave differently, after the Urca.”

“Please, by all means, continue. It’s not everyday the great Captain Flint admits he was wrong,” Silver says, eager to deflect attention away from himself. He hates, sometimes, how easily Flint can read unease on his face.

He gets a pinch in the side for his troubles, but Flint continues nonetheless. “And when I began to realize just how clever you were, how intriguing, how  _ beautiful _ ,” Flint pushes a stray curl off Silver’s forehead, “I began to feel guilty. It felt like a betrayal, almost, to look at you, to want you, when - ”

“When you still loved Thomas,” Silver finishes for him, hoping he doesn’t sound too wistful.

“Miranda told me I was being a fool, that Thomas would want me to be happy, but…I was a coward. And then Miranda died, and all I could think was that you were just one more thing that could be taken from me. I was terrified to let you in only to lose you like I did them.”

Silver is no stranger to loss, though he prefers to stifle and forget his own tragedies, rather than dwell on them. He understands better than Flint realizes the fear that can accompany love.

“We got there in the end,” Silver tries to reassure him, reaching up and cupping Flint’s jaw. “Though I will say, at no point did you  _ actually _ apologize to me.”

Flint rolls his eyes, though Silver has succeeded in making him smile. “I’m sorry, John. For everything.”

Now it is Silver’s turn to smile, though he can feel it slowly dim as his mind begins to race. Already he is thinking of all the ways he and the Hamiltons differ. He can’t help but think that when compared to the two of them, he comes up short.

Flint moves suddenly, propping himself up with both elbows on either side of Silver so he can hover over him. He looks awfully stern for someone who’s just poured his heart out. “And before you let doubt worm its way into that thick skull of yours, let me make something clear: the love I have for Thomas, for Miranda, does not diminish what I feel for you.”

Silver stiffens, caught out. He breaks eye contact, looking at Flint’s (lovely,  _ thick _ ) chest as he responds. “I just don’t know how - I’m nothing like a lady, and even less like a lord. I’ve read maybe three books in my  _ entire _ life, and they - ”

He’s cut off by Flint pressing their lips together. “You are not Thomas. You are not Miranda. Nor would I want you to be.”

Silver blinks, momentarily dazed by the still-new feeling of Flint’s mouth against his, before he remembers what he was going to say. “But I’m - ”

Flint kisses him again, lowering himself until their chests are flush together, until his weight is fully against Silver, keeping him grounded. Silver opens up to the first brush of tongue without hesitation, sighing as he reaches up to wind his arms around Flint’s neck and pull him closer still, until there’s not a breath between them that isn’t shared.

Silver moves a hand to Flint’s right bicep, purposefully trailing his fingers across the moon he knows is there. Flint shivers at the feel of it, inhaling shakily, and Silver smiles into the kiss. The last time he’d touched Flint’s soulmark, Flint had been half-drowned and unconscious. He hadn’t gotten to really experience how it feels, to have his soulmate touch their shared mark.

Flint pulls back, despite the way Silver pouts and tries to keep him in place. 

“Is it like that every time?” he asks, as if Silver would know.

Silver shrugs. “Haven’t a clue. Would you like to find out?”

At that, Flint grins. It’s not unlike the first time he smiled at Silver, all those months ago in Eleanor Guthrie’s office; a teasing, predatory look. Silver finds he much prefers it in this context.

Instead of kissing him again, Flint ducks down and starts trailing his lips against Silver’s neck. Silver can  _ feel _ Flint smirk against his skin as he moans at the feeling.

“Quit smirking, you cocky bast -  _ oh.” _

Just then Flint reaches the mark on his collarbone, and Silver completely loses his train of thought, arching into the touch desperately. Flint chuckles, kissing the moon again.

“You were saying?” he says, pressing his cheek to Silver’s chest and looking up at him with a pleased smile. 

Silver wants to call him out for being so smug, wants to tug at his ear and scold him teasingly, but the sight of Flint in his arms, smiling peacefully and so genuinely happy leaves him speechless. He reaches out, cups Flint’s face in his hand and carefully rubs his thumb against that sharp cheekbone. Flint closes his eyes and leans into the touch, and it makes Silver’s heart soar, to know that his touch is so welcome, so easy for Flint to accept.

He’s silent for too long, evidently, for soon enough Flint’s brow furrows, and he glances back up at Silver questioningly. “What is it?”

Silver shakes his head. He wouldn’t know where to begin, explaining how he feels in this moment. “Nothing. Just - come here.”

Flint slides up his body, kissing him again. It’s a slow thing, filled with care and intent, and it’s somehow both too much and not enough for Silver. He’s so overwhelmed, so emotional he can barely  _ think _ , let alone breathe. Eventually he concludes that catching one’s breath is for lesser men, and so he surges up against Flint, clutching at his scalp, his shoulders, his arms; anywhere he can reach.

Flint moves back down along his body, pausing to lavish attention on their soulmark once more before kissing his way across Silver’s sternum, his abdomen. Silver  _ writhes _ at the bristle of Flint’s beard on his skin, shivers at the feel of teeth softly raking against him.

After a time, Flint sits back, perched on Silver’s lap. He stares at Silver, his eyes raking over every exposed inch of him, and Silver in response feels his cheeks flush a deep red. He must look a mess: hair wild; chest heaving; beard burn all along his neck and chest - what Flint sees, other than an overwhelmed young fool, he doesn’t know.

“Even half-starved and exhausted, you are so beautiful,” Flint breathes out, and that - that’s not at all what Silver thought he was going to say. 

“Oh,” Silver says, a bit dumbly. He’s been with men before, of course, when it was convenient or if they’d had something he’d needed, but this is nothing like that. He’s never had a man hold him the way Flint does, look at him the way Flint does,  _ want _ him the way Flint does. Certainly no lover, man or woman, has called him  _ beautiful _ before.

“‘Oh?’ Here I have this self-proclaimed orator, this master of words in my bed and all he can think to say is ‘oh?’” Flint’s words are mocking, but his tone is light as he leans down to kiss that sensitive spot behind Silver’s ear.

Still, Silver feels ashamed, knowing that Flint of all people can be so free with his affections while he himself cannot put his thoughts to words. 

“I’m sorry,” he replies, though he knows Flint is not feeling truly reproachful from the possessive marks he’s sucking into his skin. “I just don’t know… it’s never been like this before.”

Flint pulls back, his eyes terribly fond, terribly knowing. 

“Like what?” he asks, though surely he must feel it too. He just wants Silver to talk about his  _ feelings _ , the bastard.

Silver shrugs, reaching up and resting his hands against Flint’s thick chest. “It’s never  _ mattered _ before.”

“John,” Flint starts, seeming almost hesitant. “When was the last time you were with someone simply because you wanted to be?”

Silver scoffs, immediately opens his mouth to brush off the question, but Flint pushes on.

“Not because it was expected of you, or because it was the easiest way out of a situation. No ulterior motives, no scheme unfurling in the back of your head, just you and someone you wanted to be with.”

Silver thinks about it, tries to ignore those  _ other _ times -  the times Flint can never,  _ never _ know about, when he had been desperate and hadn’t cared what he had to go through to get food in his belly - and comes up with nothing.

“I - uh - ”

Flint gives Silver a sad sort of smile, before kissing him like he’s something fragile, like he’s something worth taking care with. 

“Let me show you.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Waking up next to Flint, their arms and legs thoroughly entangled, is perhaps one of the few true joys Silver’s experienced in his life. He can’t remember ever being so close to another person, can’t remember  _ wanting _ to be so close. If he were so inclined, Silver could count the constellations of freckles on Flint’s nose.

In the end, Silver’s desperate need to piss outweighs his desire to remain in Flint’s arms, and so he carefully extricates himself from the bed. He doesn’t want to ruin his good mood by putting on the bloody peg, and so he makes his way over to the chamberpot in the corner by propping himself up with the chairs and table.

He notices, on his way back to the bed, that someone has come in as they slept and left them a bucket of water, a rag, and some soap. He stops, dips his hand in the slightly cool water, and nearly groans aloud at the relief he feels at it. He can’t wait to be  _ clean _ , and not just because it would expand his and Flint’s options in the bedroom.

“You know, this was not how I envisioned waking up today,” Flint murmurs, and Silver turns to face him, leaning back against the table. What a sight he is, barely covered by their thin blanket, his arms stretched above his head like some Grecian statue in repose. He smiles at Silver, slow and sleepy. “Though I can’t say I have any objections to the view.”

Silver, still unused to this new, affectionate side of Flint, feels himself start to blush, and quickly changes the subject. He picks up the soap. “How would you feel about a bath?”

Flint sits up almost comically fast. “Throw in one of those mangoes, and you just might make up for leaving my bed.”

Silver laughs, though he grows slightly distracted as Flint approaches him, naked as the day he was born. Flint presses a gentle kiss to Silver’s cheek in greeting before taking the soap. 

To Silver’s surprise, Flint starts to wash him, wetting the soap and then running it gently along his shoulders, his back, his neck; it’s almost as intimate as what they’d done last night. Silver can’t look away from Flint’s face as he cleans him: there’s a tenderness in his gaze that is still so very foreign. Neither of them say a word as they take turns in washing each other, as if they’re both afraid to break this fragile, almost emotional silence.

It’s only when they’re both clean (though still nude) and munching on a breakfast of mangoes that Flint speaks.

“You know, this explains an awful lot about you,” he says, gesturing to Silver’s crotch. Silver smirks, then moves from his perch on the table to straddle Flint’s lap, his legs hanging comfortably over the edge of the chair. 

“What, you mean…” He raises a brow suggestively, and Flint chuckles, shaking his head fondly.

“No, I was not referring to the size of your cock, though that is an explanation in itself,” he says, reaching around to grasp Silver’s ass, pulling him closer. Before Silver can ask what he means, Flint continues. “I was referring, actually, to what you  _ lack _ . How we differ.”

It takes a moment for Silver to understand, and when he does, the teasing smile slips from his face. 

“You - that’s - it’s not - ” Silver doesn’t know how to react, how to handle Flint  _ knowing _ . He starts to get up, nervous and unsettled as he is, but Flint doesn’t let him, keeping his grip on Silver’s hips firm and unyielding. His face, when Silver dares to look up at him, is just as kind, just as open as it’s ever been. He seems unbothered by the thought of having a Jew for a soulmate.

“You don’t have to tell me now. There are some griefs, I know, that are not voiced so easily.”

Silver sighs, pressing his forehead to Flint’s chest, trying to keep his breathing even. “But how can I keep this from you, when you only last night bared your soul to me?”

Flint sighs, running his hands soothingly along Silver’s back. “We’ll have the rest of our lives to learn each other. There’s no rush, when it comes to love.”

Silver knows this tone. The conviction, the certainty in Flint’s voice is not dissimilar what is was when he convinced a crew of men to sail into a storm, or to give up their gold-hungry ambitions to take on a madman. There’s not a trace of doubt there, not a hint of wariness. 

He looks up at Flint, taking in the gentle, unguarded love in his eyes.

And Silver believes him.

 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> title as always from a musical; this time it's a lyric from The Band's Visit
> 
> comments and kudos are appreciated, but not demanded!
> 
> black sails tumblr: slverjohn


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